


until heaven and hell are satisfied

by cyanica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood, Body Horror, Childbirth, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Whump, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Gore, Graphic Labour, Hurt Dean Winchester, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mpreg, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Overdosing, POV Second Person, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Rape Aftermath, Sam Winchester Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester, Suicidal Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Vomiting, graphic birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 10:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21117152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanica/pseuds/cyanica
Summary: Dean can't remember why he made himself throw the pills up. There's a tained, infected piece of an unholy abomination festering inside him – and though it all made sense like a mathematical equation inside his mind an hour ago, now he’s too weak, too broken to fix what needs to be fixed.Sam sees him putting that bloodied, shaking hand weakly against his abdomen, and everything solidifies.Or Dean’s pregnant because the world isn’t kind and shit’s pretty fucked up.





	until heaven and hell are satisfied

**Author's Note:**

> set in season four/five-ish. also anyone can get pregnant yaY. aLSO pretend that plot hole antichrist jesse turner or whatever doesn’t exist. 
> 
> this story is written from dean’s second pov, though i will update a second chapter shortly into third person. 
> 
> read tags for warnings
> 
> title from 'i'll follow you into the dark' - death cab for cutie.

_I. Acceptance_

“I couldn’t do it,” You gasp, closing your eyes hazily – you see stars, and feel the euphoric ecstasy of a bottle of sleeping pills fading from your veins. You think you throw up again, this time on the tiles, staining them red from the colour of your hands and stomach and blood; and white – the colour of your suicide. 

Undigested capsules of the drug that should have ceased your existence spill out across the warm body next to you. They’re pressing you to their chest, cradling your head – and you’re pretty sure they’re holding you like this because they think you are dead. 

So you close your eyes and pretend to be.

The many fucked up problems that make your life what it is, don’t exist if you can’t see them. Or that is what you would’ve convinced yourself with if you weren’t so poisoned, tainted or  _ broken _ – if you didn’t know better; if you were innocent.

_ ‘See no evil’ _ , that bullshit mantra sears itself against the walls of your mind, amplifying with each shaky breath like the sound of gunshots ricocheting against the walls to dramatize the tragedy. 

Your retinas burn white against the darkness, and your pupils are blown wide the way they do when a fist smashes itself against you head. Your stomach is convulsing at the nauseating abuse, and your fingers are slick with saliva and vomit from when you pushed them so far down your throat, you choked. 

You hate your body for fighting the idea of dying just this tiny, insignificant, one more time. 

You want to sleep. 

Your brother doesn’t let you, so you try to anyway, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. That’s how the merry-go-round of Winchester lies and betrayal works. It’s a tradition, so you shouldn’t break it.

“God, Dean! What the fuck did you do?” You’re collapsed in Sam’s lap, and he is burning – a bright ember of distorted emotion and overwhelming sensation, so much so, that you don’t want to touch him. He is a blur of frantic panic that you feel all over in a flurry of heat and colours. Sam touches your hair, your back, your arms, your face –

What  _ did _ you do? 

All thoughts evaporate like burning steam, and now you had no idea of anything.

“I – I –...“

_ You took the pills _ , that voice inside your pounding head replies, the one that sounds like Sam or dad or Cas or anyone you’ve ever loved.  _ You took the pills to fix the problem, and yet the problem is still inside you, you are still alive, and the ones you love will die because you didn’t.  _

“Oh, God.” Sam says, and you think this must be serious. Suicide doesn’t seem that scary now that you tried it, but you know Sam doesn’t think so. ”God-fucking-dammit! Dean, open your eyes.”

_ You _ are so fucked up and unbelievably damaged beyond saviour that no monster or demon could ever damage you the way you damaged yourself. You are one sorry sonofabitch that wants to pull the trigger, but dropped the gun with anxiety-stricken, sweaty palms. You are falling apart into a million glass shards of unrelenting suicidal euphoria, and a broken self-concept to be your brother's protector when everything you touch rots and dies from your tained, blood-stained hands. Everything you are collapses at the seams. 

Sam didn’t want to accept that. No, Sammy was who you lived and died for, but Sam didn't want it that way. You would make the sun rise entirely just for him for eternity, yet he would rid the universe of the sun so you wouldn’t have to do that anymore. To Sam, this was what another deal was bargained over, this was apocalypse take hundred-and-three, this was proving the Winchester’s fatal flaw was always each other, every single God-damned time.

“ _ Fuck _ , Dean, c’mon. It’s – hey, I got you.” Sam murmurs and this time you know you’ve thrown up again. The bathroom is disgusting, one-way tickets through the other side of the Veil are scattered all over the tiles, some undigested and dissolving in the bile, liquor and vomit that’s all over the both of you.

You hate yourself for doing this, and your hate is red – the colour of your heart and your brain and your soul.

“I couldn’t do it.” You say again, either for emphasis or because you forget you've already said it. You can't remember why you made yourself throw the pills up. There's a tained, infected piece of an unholy abomination festering inside you – and though it all made sense like a mathematical equation inside your mind an hour ago, now you’re too weak, too broken to fix what needs to be fixed. 

It was a case, that's what it was, so you worked through it like one. Though, instead of reading an article,  _ they _ found you. You were kept alive in a state that lingered between hazy, intoxicating consciousness and sweet, glorious death. Instead of a nine hour road trip with Kansas songs and Sammy beside you, flashing lights and screaming sirens ripped through your senses and Sam was a memory you used to keep yourself from falling too far gone. Instead of research and burning the bones of some deranged dead spirit, you bought a pregnancy test twenty weeks later, and swallowed a bottle of whiskey with a side of zolpidem to kill the monster twenty minutes ago. 

But somewhere between a demon's cock violently thrusting itself into you for hours until your body tore while it laughed with God in a chaotic state of hysteria, and now – where you lay with your brother covered in your own puke on the bathroom floor –, you have your mind. 

You whisper, "I couldn't…" and perhaps you don't even know why, and that terrifies you. The world had always been so black and white, but right now all your senses are muffled, and nothing makes sense the way it should. 

Sam sees you putting a bloodied, shaking hand weakly against your abdomen, and everything solidifies. 

* * *

_ II. Betrayal _

Castiel didn’t look at you. 

You know you are poisoned –  _ infected _ – and what is nesting and festering inside you is an immoral, ungodly abomination that not even the Big Man himself would dare to create – and now Cas knows it, too. 

His eyes squint, head spinning gears behind crystal eyes, as if he was trying to distinguish between the many wrong broken pieces of Dean Winchester’s life that made up his soul like some kind of twisted puzzle. 

“There’s something wrong about you,” he studies, disturbed. Those eyes piece into your body, your mind and everything that you are -- so you tear your own gaze away and look at absolutely anything else. The wooden floors where you find yourself passed out and covered in your own vomit more often than not, is very interesting in the dark, suffocating light of motel room. 

Perhaps Cas won’t differentiate this wrong from all the others; maybe your soul is so contaminated by sin that he can no longer tell what is one corruption from another. 

“Something… evil –“

He whispered those words on his tongue with disturbed uneasy, feeling the tsunami of dark, satanic, unholiness from your being. 

He looks nauseous, and you wonder if Angels can even get sick. That immense amount of pure, unnerved  _ wrongness _ is radiating from deep inside your unclean, tainted soul, and now that Cas can sense something inhuman embedded into your womb, and he almost recoils. 

He reaches out a hand that is drifting ever so closer towards your stomach, but something instinctive rips through his synapses, and Cas’s arm immediately snatches back in a motion you can only describe as neurotic panic. He reels back as if you burn him, and maybe you do. Maybe it hurts for an Angel to sense such vile demonic wickedness, to feel the offspring of a human and a demon thriving inside someone. 

He can’t look at you, your best friend is disgusted by what you’ve become, your guardian Angel revolved by your existence. 

You are abandoned.

You chose to look up at him, emotions rolling off your mind like tidal waves that asphyxiate you. 

You want to scream at him that  _ you didn’t want this,  _ and _ to look at you like you  _ haven't _ committed a crime against all that it natural in the universe,  _ and  _ that  _ God _ , you wish you were dead the way Cas wants you to be _ . And you want to scream until your throat is mangled into shreds, until it’s bleeding inside, and you’re choking on your own pharynx and vocal cords that are torn indistinguishably apart. You see red, God, it’s painful. Rage fills your veins that pump your blood with hate across your body, and suddenly slaughtering Cas – something so far beyond mutilation – until he no longer resembles anything remotely humanoid is all you want to do.

You want to wail, break down and weep for what is already broken. You want to cry and collapse in his arms that won’t hold you until everything doesn’t hurt anymore. You want to cry the way you do when no one listens; Hell, beyond that, you want to scream and wail until your lungs give out from the chaotic hysteria, and feel yourself dehydrate from the loss of water ridding itself from your broken body. 

“Dean…” Cas breathes, anxiety and something beyond disturb --  _ revulsion _ \-- was polluting the atmosphere, turning the air frostbitten and deranged in seconds. You doubt he knows what he wants to say. Perhaps there’s too much overloading that celestial mind, for him  _ to _ say.

_ Dean Winchester carries the offspring –  _ parasite _ – of the damned. Abominable. Revolting. Unnatural. Dean Winchester must be destroyed. Unholy, immoral. Dean Winchester is evil. _

That’s what scares you more. 

You don’t dare speak. If you speak you will break down one way or another, and Sam will find Cas maimed to ribbons in a pathetic attempt to satisfy they rage that burns inside of you, or he will find you hysterical, hospital-level panicking, and drowning yourself in your own suffocating tears while Cas stands and watches. 

In the end you say nothing. You can’t. 

Cas stares at the ground like it’s the most important thing in the world, and you’re pretty sure he’s refraining himself from murdering you to rid the demonic anomaly from existence – fighting that angelic wiring that makes Angels no different from slaves. Or he’s already planning your demising in his head, preparing himself to make that robotic move to impale your gut with an Angel blade, or burn your eyes from their sockets and liquify your brain. 

_ Hell _ , at this point you want him to. You want him to do what you didn’t have the guts to do, and you want to tell Sammy that if Cas can’t do it either, then he has to. You want either of them to pull the trigger, where you can’t due to the shaking in your petrified, bloodied hands; and for the love of God, you want them to shoot straight.

Cas is gone before you can ask.

* * *

_ III. Denial _

Neither of you speak about it.

Cas leaves the night he returned, and both of you know why, but neither of you has the courage to talk about it, or absolutely anything else. That would be okay, if it weren’t so uncharacteristically  _ Sam _ that it made you want to scream.

You spend your weeks either boarded in your dim room, while shouting at Sam to fuck off as he tries to bring you food or aspirin or a case, if it would get you to come out of the motel room you’ve been hiding in for weeks. You know Sam doesn’t actually want you hunting -- he sees you as hurt, damaged and you know he tries to fool himself that all you need is a little rest to recover from some mere flesh wound that grazes the surface – but he knows that you are the two most unluckiest sons of bitches and God is never that kind.

He hears you throwing up the meals you barely touch, unable to keep anything down as you feel the rotting, poisonous parasites inside your body. It bloats your stomach – you feel it embedded into your womb, growing —  _ devouring _ . It’s consuming the food you eat for itself, taking away the air you breathe, riding your body of nutrients, of muscle, of blood. It’s killing you slowing, draining you of your life force, and wasting your body away to nothing. You can feel it. 

So you hardly eat – no, you  _ starve _ yourself. If it can’t fed from you, it can’t grow. 

But it knows what you are doing, and it is beyond enraged. Pain that you didn’t think could exist erupts from your stomach. It’s a blinding type of agony that has you screaming before you’ve even hit the tiles of the motel bathroom floor. You imagine it as your stomach dissolving itself in its own acidic bile, or your intestines knotting themselves together in every way possible, or your lungs filling up with razor blades that sever up through your esophagus and shred into your throat so horrifically, that asphyxiating on the blood would be a relief.

The pain diverges across to every nerve, lighting up every organ and tissue in a rampageous, disintegrating fire. You think of Hell, and wished to God that he would slam you back there, so you didn’t have to experience a single second of the agony that broke through you. 

Time is lucid for the next couple minutes. Sam comes bolting in and sees you convulsing on the floor, blood pooling from your mouth and onto the tiles. You are dead, he thinks, because the amount of blood that came gushing out of your mouth is inhuman. 

When the agony shifts into a blearing ache that would have crippled you any other day but is now as bad as a 3/10, you stand up. Or, okay, so maybe you don’t. You can’t stand up, all the bones in your legs feel skinned of their muscles and flesh to the point where they would shatter if you stood on them, so you crawl. 

You heave your heavy arms that burn with the pain of a thousand barbed whips and make it the whole two steps, until you’re throwing up what seems like a gallon of blackened, revolting bloody sludge all over yourself.

“Dean!” Sam is crying. Sam doesn’t cry. There are his hands again – your back, your arms, your cheeks, your stomach.

“...M’de it mad,” you choke in between retches. It seems Sam’s touch above your abdomen keeps the pain at a level that is almost bearable. You feel it inside your rotting body, devouring through your healthy flesh and muscle until the organs around it are rancid and blackened with demonic infection – and yet somehow through it all, Sam’s hand caressing your bloated stomach is soothing.

You find the strength to grip Sam’s wrist within your hand to lock it in place against your stomach. The tightness and hold you have on him is almost too desperate, the force supernatural. You don’t feel like yourself, and he looks terrified to remove his hand.

“I n’d to ea’. It’s h’ngry. Can’t m’ke it mad again.” You drone, sluggishly and hazily – barely keeping your eyes open. The expression on your face doesn’t align with the strength your hand possess that is encasing Sam’s wrist, and he looks terrified because of it. 

“Okay,” he says, and supports your entire weight while he helps you from the floor and into the bed. You body can’t handle the shift in position, and you vomit putrid gunk again – more of that rotten, infectious residue that cannot possible be your blood anymore. Sam keeps a hand to your stomach, unable to remove it from your deadly, unnatural grip, and you only let it go with the knowledge that he is going to feed you, feed  _ it _ .

Your brother comes back, awfully bloodless and shaking he’d had several panic attacks in the last ten minutes, though you don’t notice a thing. There’s a sandwich on a plate, and you scoff it down before you have a chance to taste it, hardly chewing it, only pushing it down your oesophagus in three chunks or less. 

But it’s not satisfied. It wants more, and you know that from how the way the pain is only beginning to ebb away.

So you make Sam bring you whatever else he can find in the kitchen. You make him rub and hold your stretched, bloated stomach as it swells with the thing that’s feeding from your own nourishment. You can feel it grow with each bite you take, and no matter how much you gorge yourself with, your stomach remains empty. The thing inside drains you of all nourishment, and leaves you with only enough nutrition inside you to keep you alive. 

It’s grown, you can feel it. It sits heavily in your swollen stomach, pressing against the walls of your abdomen and rotting away at the organs it’s encased in. In a matter of hours, your stomach is bulging, maybe twice the size as what it was before when it was just a small bump. You don’t look all that pregnant -- you’re small for six months -- but you can feel your jeans cutting into your skin.

You groan as Sam removes his hand from it, creating a dull pain that seems to radiating within you belly whenever his hand isn’t caressing it. 

“You should sleep.” Sam tell you, and it’s because you look like shit. Despite eating the biggest meal you’ve ever had, you still look starved. Your cheeks are hollow, ribs poke through the skin of your chest, and – apart from your swollen abdomen – you look skeletal. Sam knows sleep won’t fix that, but God, he’s desperate and willing to try everything. You know that in the morning, Sam will bury himself in research and lore that doesn’t exist, and cipher between possible cures from this demonic impregnation, when you know the only cure is a bullet between your eyes. Maybe with the colt. 

You lie in the bed facing towards him. He sits against the headboard. “Yeah,” you sigh. “Can you stay?” 

He shuffles down towards, and now you and your brother are sharing a bed, noses almost touching and you move his hand down towards the swell of your stomach – and this was so very,  _ very _ wrong and fucked up, but God, what else wasn’t?

* * *

_ IV. Anger _

"Cambion," Sam says, so devoid and detached it may as well have been a death sentence. 

His eyes are red, whether from staring at the laptop screen all night, or letting silent tears trail down his checks – ones that he doesn't think you know about, but you do. 

"How bad?" You ask, and you really shouldn't have bothered. You know how fucking bad this is, you don't want to make Sam have to say it. You don't even want to hear it. He is your brother, your blood and he is the one God-damned person in this universe you would trust blindly to the ends of the Earth and back – if he says it, it's real. It would become real the way a pregnancy test didn't, or your own bloated stomach didn't. Having a fucking seizure because the demon inside was devouring away at your body, which somehow didn't feel  _ real _ , the way you knew Sam's words would.

"Bad." And with that, all the atmosphere falls into a thousand pieces of crumbling sky and everything crystallizes. 

_ Fuck _ . 

"Half human, half demon; they call it a Cambion." Sam pretends to scroll through the research like he's stumbling upon it for the first time, instead of searching furiously for hours for some other explanation other than  _ this _ , and coming up void. 

"They're rare. Only ever existed in biblical times." Sam spoke cautious, as if he was cephiring a bomb with his words. He constantly looks back over to you, who's sitting on the motel sofa with glassy eyes and so eerily quiet, it's frightening.

"They were born from human hosts, drained their life force like some kind of demonic parasite, you could say. They fed off them, grew strong. Once they no longer needed the host to survive, they killed them.”  _ Internal bleeding, ruptured organs, or other fucked-up kinds of birth-related trauma that made regular birth complications seem as deadly as papercuts. _ Sam didn't say any of this, of course.

“Angels would be sent to destroy the Cambions, and from what it looks like, these things were pretty powerful. It took an army of Angels to defeat just several Cambions, and hardly any of them made it out… Guess that explains Cas –"

You push both the heels of your hands into your eye sockets and ward the pounding migraine away. You don't want to think about this, of armies of Angels, and demonic parasites, and the fact that you are a  _ host _ – carrying the thing that will kill you inside your womb. "I don’t want a history lesson, Sam. Just –"

You cut yourself off, and sigh. The tension in your head slowly amplifying and you wonder if it's the – the…  _ Cambion _ , or whatever. 

_ Can we fix this _ , you want to say but don’t because you know.

"Are you okay?" Sam asks, and God, you hate how gentle he sounds. The Winchesters  _ don't _ do babying. It's a 'quit whining', or 'hey, don't be a wuss'. 

Only when one of you is dying – that is when you show concern, and you hate that Sam is doing that now.

"Yeah," You grunt, standing up from the couch. All the blood rushes from you head, and for a moment, you see a vibrant galaxy flood the room. Your hand reaches out to grab the armrest of the sofa, but there's three, all moving around in a circle, where there should only be one. You miss it by a fraction and stumble.

Sam's up and moving faster than your eyes can track, and holding your body close so you don't collapse on the floor. He lowers you back to the couch, and you curl your knees up to your chest and blink the vortex of stars, and the triple vision away. With the vibrant blur smothering your vision, and the sensation of seeing every colour at once, you feel nauseated.

"That was rhetorical." Sam almost smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and you wouldn't believe the smile he wore anyway. 

"What's happening to me?" You whisper, snaking a hand around to feel your abdomen that is tainted and forgien, no longer apart of you – taken over by contaminated evilness. You feel it expanding with each struggling breath you take. It's bigger than last night, your clothes stretch thin. 

_ You're dying _ , your own head supplies. You want to laugh at it. You've been dying each day since you were born. Nothing has changed.

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to you." Sam tells you, his hand grazes over yours that lies on your stomach, and uses the other to wrap around your shoulders and bleed warmth from both your bodies. Neither of you hug, neither of you are ever this close; but in the dim saturated light of a dingy motel room, where the world feels as if it's falling into fragments around you, neither of you care.

"This isn’t -- this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” Sam chokes on his words, that little lump in his throat making it hard to speak.

“No shit, Sam.” You scoff, you don’t pay attention to the glassiness of his eyes. 

“We can go to Bobby." Sam says it with such false determine that you want to cry. "He's got books and rituals and shit that – that –" he frantic, searching for some kind of hope where there is none. It doesn't bring you security… no, it  _ hurts _ . 

“What can Bobby do that  _ armies of Angels _ couldn't? I know you didn’t find a way to fix this, you would have said so before." You're not trying to be a dick here -- okay, you  _ are _ , but -- you're trying to be realistic. Your voice hurts Sam in the same way it hurts you, but you don't have the privilege or energy to care about such things anymore.

Sam doesn’t give up like that, though. "Yeah and when has the internet ever been one hundred percent? Let’s go to Cas, okay? Cas. He can help – he can –" 

"I’m an abomination to those winged dicks -- or at least I will be, once he broadcast it all over fucking Angel radio and fills ‘em all in! He and the Angels will  _ hunt _ me. The night he left, he wouldn’t touch – no, wouldn’t so much  _ as look _ at me, let alone try to  _ help _ ."

"Well, we just do nothing, Dean!" 

You're both screaming. You want Sam to take a swing. You want him to hit you, like you aren't so broken that he wouldn't dare let you  _ walk _ by yourself. 

But he doesn't, because you  _ are _ . You are broken, and you're dying, and you're rotting away.

“Some hunter,  _ somewhere _ \--”

"Dammit, Sam!" You snapped, peering into his eyes that seem as desperate and crazed as a madman. “You think some random fucking hunter has got some magical Plan B pill that works on demon-human hybrids; like I’m some fucking whore that got into it with one of those evil son’s of bitches in a desprate, lonely one night stand? I’m not  _ you _ .”

The rage is artificial, seeming distant and cold, but you can feel it settle in your bones and spread throughout your body like a disease. 

So you hit him. You clock him square in the jaw, fingers and bones radiating with pain but you love it. He stumbles away from the sofa with a split lip and blood, along with disintegrate false hope leaking, through his fingers. 

And then you can't remember why you did it – or even if you had a reason. 

"Shit, Dean..." He mutters, pacing away from you and over to the sink where he spits blood and saliva from his mouth. 

For a guy who's growing more pregnant every second with a demon spawn eating away at you and draining your life force, that punch did quite some damage. 

You're sorry, but you don't say it aloud. Somehow you can tell Sam knows, just by the way your face melts of rage, and the cracks of fear break through the mask. 

Sam's got his back leaning against the basin, one hand gripping the side of the counter behind him, and the only holding a beer pressed to his jaw. He stays there for a moment, doesn't make any move to walk back to you on the sofa, and suddenly you realize that maybes he's scared of you. You are, too.

"Look, I meant what I said, that I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. Call it false hope, or unrealistic, or  _ insanity _ – whatever. I’m not going to -- I  _ can't  _ believe that  _ this _ is how it ends.”

You pull your knees up to your heavy stomach again, and don’t say anything.

* * *

_V. Revival _

_ You swear that the place they take you is Hell. You feel that burning furnace boiling your skin,  _ ripping _ it off, and the muscles, tissues and flesh are being skinned from your body. _

_ Strong metallic hooks sink their way into the meat of your shoulders, and you scream as they tear through bone, and break through the other side of your mutilated skin. _

_ Chains wrapped themselves around your wrist, you neck, you ankles – and God, you realise that you are frozen.  _

_ The dank, filthy room that you lay in is smothered with blood and feces and vomit and you-don’t-what-to-know-what coating the walls and floor tiles, so much so that you are bathing in it. Some of the broken flesh, vomit and bloody pools are your own – you’re bleeding uncontrollably, vomit all over your chest – but everything else is entirely foreign. There’s literal shit smeared on the tiles, vomit painted on the walls, and what you think is dried cum littering the chains and hooks that sink into you. It’s overwhelming, the smell so rancid and horrific that you gag on it.  _

_ It’s a room so vile, that it still echoes with torture and death from the many poor sons of bitches that have ended up here before you.  _

_ And then suddenly, you are not alone.  _

_ Black eyes bleed into your soul, and the demon doesn’t speak a word as he stalks towards you. You wonder if he’s always been here, studying you like prey.  _

_ He moves closer to your mouth, breathing the same air as you. You can smell the putrid smell of metallic blood, salty cum and revolving sex on his breath. He smiles, and you feel sick.  _

_ He pressed down hard on your shoulder and neck, making the chains and meat hooks ignite with white-hot agony.  _

_ “No –“ You gasp, but he shuts you up by fusing his tainted lips with yours, slipping his tongue so far down inside that you gag, making a choked sound. It’s cold and slimy within your month. The demon taunts you with his eyes as he breaks away.  _

_ “Gonna make you feel so naughty, baby.” The rough kisses move harshly down your bloodied neck, the demon sucking and biting on your skin until it feels raw under the demon’s teeth. That’s when he drinks from you, tearing a gash into your neck and guzzling down warm blood. You feel so faded and detached that you don’t recognise this as reality.  _

_ His hand wrapped itself around your throat, stifling another aching sound wanting to escape your body. “Scream for me, baby. I’ll make you  _ scream _ ." He warned threateningly, voice low and even. You can't make out the words he is saying, even if you wanted to. Your head isn’t on Earth anymore and you feel like the opposite of clarity to be able to respond. _

_ The demon pushed himself into you, lustfully – violently – and together in the horribly dark light of this basement, or dungeon –  _ whatever _ it was –, he jerks in and out of your hole until you lose all feeling. _

_ It’s so much more heavier than it had been moments before.The last few thrusts becoming animalistic, beyond violent and that's when you cry out, screaming ‘stop’ too many times against the edge of your throat that’s lodged by his suffocating grip. You think you throw up again. _

_ Your hole is torn, bleeding – you can feel it, abused and mangled. Somehow you know this has happened before, perhaps before you woke up, perhaps earlier but you blocked out the memories.  _

_ His nails sink into your flesh, the skin breaking. The hold he has on your neck isn’t loose anymore, it’s constricting – you can’t get air down your throat, – or cry if you wanted to cry, or scream the way he told you to – the circulation has been ripped away. The movements were too much, the thrusts too fast, and you feel yourself going underwater, all your senses are fuzzy and disoriented. These alarms were blaring inside your head at the same time, you could feel every nerve inside your body on fire, the blood rush everywhere through your veins – but your pitiful lungs remind empty. You can’t breathe.  _

_ “My baby,” he whispered rancid breathe into your ear, biting on it and tearing the skin from your helix with his teeth. _

_ And when it was over, everything came crashing back down to earth. _

_ Your face was so wet, sweat, tears, blood – it was all there. You know he had burst a vein that'd broken through your skin, and clawed at your neck so horribly, the flesh tore. You know you cried, you gave in to what he wanted, because you are pathetic and weak. Even so, you don’t stop crying.  _

_ Your body aches, there's no pleasure at all. There's a release of throbbing, pulsing, but it feels awful and when did you close his eyes?  _

_ You’re body is slick with blood and a demon’s acidic cum. _

_ “My baby, filled up inside you.” _

* * *

_ VI. Watercolours _

You wake screaming. It’s a terrifying sound that rips your throat. 

You’ve had nightmares before. You’ve dreamt of hell, and of Yellow Eyes, the fire, your father dying to save your pitiful soul, and Sammy dying -- when he crashed to the ground along with your sanity. That fall which broke the promise you made to yourself into a million, unfixable pieces -- that promise that engraved, you would let what dies stay dead. 

But this dream is reality, and for a moment where you lay screaming and thrashing hysterically in the constricting sheets of your bed, you can’t decipher what is real. 

The pale motel walls move and spill in the dark like running watercolours. They morph into dark tiles, ones that you were chained to while a demon restrained you, while he fucked your broken body and tore your soul. 

The ceiling that’s mouldy and stained with rain is suddenly painted with cracking stone, blood splattering like acrylics, and you see black, voidless, suffocating eyes in everything you bare witness to. 

That revolting, nauseating smell from the chamber you knew as the only thing in the entire world for days is smothering your senses, until you are choking on it. 

The demon presses down on your chest, pinning you down into the bed that’s become ice-like and impenetrable. The cold solidity of the metal slate that is now your mattress taints your skin with blue and purple watercolour bruises as you writhe against it.

Blood drips onto your forehead, there’s  _ something  _ pinned to the ceiling and you wonder if this a twisted, sickening shadow of the past that you fight against, that your family runs from by running towards another evil in what’s probably classified as suicidal insanity. 

The demon forces you to look, and though your vision blurs white around the edges and flickers like an old nickelodeon, you can see it’s a painted image of the embodiment of  _ love  _ that burns in front of you.

The figure is Sam, gutted and flesh sizzling as it burns like gasoline, polluting the air. 

But you blink, and then it’s Cas.

And then Dad.

And then your mom. 

The Demon holds your chin in place, filthy claws digging into your skin, drawing blood. He crushes the bones of your jaw as you thrash, heat igniting your flesh just as Bobby’s burns putrid black from above. It boils off in liquefying, charred chucks of scorched meat, diminishing from his body, only to expose scaled blackened bone fragments and seared remains of mutilated muscle. 

The smell of scorching flesh that assaults your nostrils and violently pluments you into that terrifying mindset of  _ you never escaped  _ crashes into you at full force, enough to thrust every sliver of oxygen from your lungs.

“Dean!” The Demon says your name. 

He never once said your name, not once. You figured it was part of that psychological torture of humiliation and dehumanization, but now that he’s said it, you suddenly wish you could purify the sound that is your own name. The word came from his revolting mouth, the one what was dragged across your body, tore chunks of flesh from your skin and still poisoned the blood in your veins with its saliva. Your name is tainted, the one syllable sound of D-E-A-N is no longer yours,  _ you  _ belong to him. 

Entirely, and eternally  _ his _ . 

“Dean, stop!” 

You trash violently, the way a man would if he still had something to fight for. Your fist connects with cartilage and bone, blood serges from your hand and you wonder if it’s broken the way the Demon’s nose must be. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” He shouts and falls back against the bedside table with a sickening crack of bone, and blood erupting all over the back of his head, and down his disfigured nostrils. It’s everywhere, seemingly replacing the fire that’s diminished entirely -- too quickly. It’s unreal; how the flames and heat have just become ash in mere seconds, leaving the motel room in ice. 

The words coming from your mouth don’t sound human, not even to your own ears. The Demon is sprawled out on the floor, cradling his head with one had, the other stretched out in front of him as if to tame an uncontrollable, dangerous animal. 

That doesn’t make sense, your mind screams. He’s soothing you, showing no harm, and you’re so confused you think you’re crying. He morphes into the face that you know as your brother, bleeding and eyes as wild as your own.

“Dean, hey, stop! Dean, you gotta calm down, man.” 

“You’re not real.” You say, back pressed against the headboard as far as your body will allow without breaking from the pressure. 

This isn’t Sam. It’s a trick. It’s cruel and evil and painful -- and you almost wish for the Demon’s face, rather than being tortured by Sammy’s. 

“Get away from me!” You try to shout, but the voice that comes out of your mouth doesn’t sound like your own. 

“Dean, it’s okay. I’m real. You were dreaming, you were just dreaming.” Not-Sam tells you, and in the darkness of the motel room, the white around for vision fades, the static dissolves into nothingness. It’s so quiet, so deadly absent of sound -- of the fire, and screams and your hysteria -- that you can hear your own heartbeat pound within your head. It grounds you to reality, reinforcing your mind you are alive -- not in Hell, or captured -- with every beat. 

“Sam?” You whisper, still not entirely convinced that he will fade into the background like everything else you thought was real. 

“Yeah, it’s me. You’re safe.” His face lights up, pure relief that’s a rarity in you lives paints his face and twists your gut as if you’ve been shot. The moonlight  pours into the too empty motel room like watercolors on parchment paper, and you are drowning in the art. Sam’s blood colours the canvas in a sickening fashion, violent red against the black and white hues of the world around you.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, reaching up to wipe a fraction of the blood away from his jaw. He flinches, barely, tries to smother the way your hand hurts him, and you want to die. “Shit, Sam, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” Sam smiles gently.  _ Why is he smiling?!  _ God, he must be more insane than you are yourself. You bashed his nose in, and smashed his head against the bedside table. You don’t deserve a good brother -- you don’t deserve Sam. He shouldn’t even be looking at you, let alone  _ smiling  _ at you. 

You close your eyes, lean forward in the bed and bring your knees to your chest over your prominent bump. “I hurt you.” Sam’s jaw has already become an araway of purples, blues and yellows from the other day when you hit him -- not because your sleep-infected mind thought he was the Demon that--... that ra--... that  _ had  _ you -- but because you  _ wanted  _ to.

“It’s nothing, Dean. I’m okay, alright? You’re okay, too.” Sam said, and you can’t tell if they’re really meant for you. “Try and get some sleep. We gotta leave early if we wanna make it to South Dakota by tomorrow night.”

_ Oh yeah _ , the “people are rockin’ up with hearts exploding like grenades out of their bodies, get your asses down here, ya idjits” thing.

You make a noncommittal noise and watch Sam head for the shower at 2 AM -- head wounds bleed  _ a lot _ . He doesn't say anything else -- not that you were going to anyway. 

You don’t sleep, but you pretend to and Sam knows. He’s pretending too. 

* * *

_ VII. Fire _

Sam handles the case, because apparently people seven months pregnant with the Antichrist shouldn’t be hunting. 

He doesn’t trust you. With the nightmares, and the screaming, and the never sleeping, and then the punches you throw at him – it’s safe to say Sam wants nothing to do with you. 

But then he comes home to Bobby’s every night, ask how you are doing, and acts like he loves you, so it makes it harder to constantly push him away when he’s holding on so tight.

It’s not like you want to hurt your brother, but it’s inevitable. One day, this thing inside you is going to erupt like a ticking time bomb, obliterate everything in its path, and dammit, it’s your responsibility to minimize the casualties, keep Sammy safe from yourself. Dear God, you are trapped inside a burning house, and if it’s the last thing you will ever do with your broken, trained body, you will push Sam from the flames – the same stubborn, insane Sam who’s adamant on dying beside you. 

Screaming from the other night ricochets against the walls of your skull. _ Loving me is suicide _ , you had screamed, red-faced and flaming like the way your insides lividly burned. Because you taint the people you love, the way Dad and Lisa and Cas were tainted, and now that same poison is going to kill Sam. 

Keeping Sam safe was what you were made to do, so be damned if a Demon and it’s parasite inside you was going to stop that.

He screamed that you were insane, and the fight erupted into Sam shoving you against Bobby’s kitchen countertops, and him dodging your fists, and then you sobbing on the floor because the canvas that was your life, frayed and smudged as it was, was now running ruined with destroyed paint, and you can’t catch the drops or fix the painting in time. 

You look down at you stomach that’s no longer a part of you. It’s bloated, heavy and round the way any seven month pregnant person’s belly was. It’s infuriating how fucking normal it looks. Not like before, of course when it was flat and firm; but normal in the way it would look if you were  _ really _ pregnant, if the thing inside you was a baby and nothing more, if you loved it like it was your child. 

There’s sometimes a sick fantasy that play out in your head when the dawn is rising over the horizon, and the things you think about don’t have consequences until you regain proper lucidity. They’re thoughts you think about in the times where time doesn’t exist and where it’s neither day or night, which somehow makes it okay – until you realise it’s 9AM and reality crashes back down to end your euphoric high, so you can hate yourself a little more each time. 

You think of family. Of Cas, or Lisa, or even Cassie, and their arms wrapped around your middle, and the embodiment of safety washes over you. For a tiny, insignificant little moment, you can lie the way you do in every other way, and convince your muffled brain that the thing inside you is made from love. You can almost feel Cassie’s hand graze your middle, or Lisa whisper sweet nothings to her child, or Cas planting kisses against your stomach. 

And then your not-dream ends when you wake up from your not-sleep. 

It’s wrong, and evil, because you shouldn’t want to love the thing that is killing you, that has  _ infected _ you – and you shouldn’t want to pretend, but you do and it’s so helpless, it’s inevitable.

It’s 6PM though, and the time for illusions won’t smother you until later. Now you’ll pull apart and reassemble the .45 so many times your hands will ache, or you’ll fling a knife at the wooden post until the wood breaks under the force. 

_ All brooding and no hunting make Dean a dull boy.  _

You fling the knife at the wall with enough force to embed the whole blade into the drywall, Just barely missing Bobby as he walks passed. 

“Watch it, boy. Don’t take ya cranky hormonal ass out on my house.” Bobby declares with no real anger to his voice. He’s been nicer – _gentler –_ ever since he found out you got yourself knocked up. It’s not like you can really hide it at this point (it’s pretty fucking obviously to anyone with eyes), so Sam took it upon himself to tell him. Bobby’s under the impression it was a drunken one night stand with a dude you don’t even know the name off, because _if_ _you tell him the truth, you’re fucking dead, Sam._ _He doesn’t need to be burdened with this shit. _

If he did know how badly they were fucked, and that apocalypse number hundred-and-five was among them, he knew Bobby wouldn’t be this calm in the slightest. Hell, he’d probably be worse than Sam. It did feel fucked up, lying to Bobby that is, and God knows Sam has violently strong opinions about it, but like Hell you are going to let another person burn and die within the house you are trying to keep the people you love from. 

“Sorry, Bobby.” You say, and the fact the he knows nothing – that he, in this fucked up version of things, is innocent and untainted by  _ you _ , makes the edges of your mouth curl up. You find yourself smiling. 

“You okay, kid?” Bobby asks, the tone hinting that he knows much more than he should and you pale for a split second before regaining the mask you wear more often than your own name.

“‘Course. I’m good. Just a little stir crazy, since Sam’s got me grounded.” You shrug as if it’s nothing, and stalk over to the drywall to pull the knife from it. You twist it around in your fingers, studying the design of the hilt as if it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. You draw a dot of blood where the blade pokes your index finger.

“I know ya Winchesters don’t believe in talking as if it’s against your religion or something –“ Bobby has the eyes that scream he was somehow always meant to be a father. “But if you’ve got something rattling around in that think-headed skull of yours…”

“Yeah, Bobby.” You clear your throat to rid the lump away, and look at the ground. More than everything, you wish you could drop off the face of the Earth in peace, instead of dragging a piece of everyone who’s ever loved you along with you. “I know.”

“Okay, son.” 

* * *

_ VIII. Solstice _

The vortex of stars that makes up the constellation of Gemini reigns high up above the earth on the night of the summer solstice, and  _ God _ , is it indeed never ending. 

You inhaled sharply, the warm thickness of blood and fluid runs down the insides of your legs and you feel thrown into a world where everything is happening in high volume, fast-forward and over-exposure.

“Sammy,” you murmur, leaning against the wall, and trying to hold your broken body together before everything comes undone and you collapse at the seems. You don’t stand up. Instead you fall to pieces onto the cold, wooden floor and wrap an arm around your abdomen against the excruciation when the waves transform into a much higher intensity. You still bleed as your brother practically carries you to the bathroom, leaning all of your weight on Sam's shoulders, too aware that every movement doesn’t agree with the amazing combination of contractions, sleep deprivation and the very constant sickly nausea burning through his throat.

“I’ve got you.” Sam says, and though you should be humiliated at the dehumanizing way this nine hour labour has covered in your own bodily fluids, exhausted your bones to the core and tore your abdomen apart with each new agonizing wave -- you don’t care that Sam is here and bears witness to everything. You want him here more than you’ve wanted anyone, and  _ God _ , does that feel dangerous.

You break against the cold tiles once you reach the bathroom, and Sam hold your chest and upper body in his lap as you grit your teeth and stifle a groan from the convulsing pain. This wave is longer, and faster than the other contractions had been, making you clench your fists into Sam’s shirt, and muffle a sob against his chest as you lay there on Bobby’s bathroom floor. Your skin is a cold sweat, but feverish underneath Sam’s fingertips.

As the pain in your stomach reaches a tolerance that was no longer so bearable, you hear the deep, pained scream leave your lips – more so bounce of the tiled walls, amplifying the searing headache behind your eyes. You subconsciously bite the inside of your cheek to keep any of this from getting much worse, and thankfully the pure metallic taste hitting your tongue and coating your teeth isn’t as bad as the ripping and clenching of your insides – you hardly feel the gash you did to yourself.

A low moan makes its way up your raw throat, escaping bloodied, chapped lips as you fight with everything you have to rid the pain. You doubled over onto the grime-covered title, wrapping your aching fingers around your brother’s arms like an anchor in a sea storm. A soft touch caresses itself down your back, and suddenly you think you see stars, that vibrant piercing Gemini vortex, through the backs of your eyes that are screwed agonisingly shut.

The taste of metal leaks down your chin and onto the stained flooring. 

As the contraction peaks, the sounds coming from your mouth are louder, and the unshed, burning tears are nearly streaming down your already damp cheeks. Your forehead presses against Sam’s flesh as you screamed within the small space between your face and his chest – or at least you think you are screaming. You aren’t sure if you can hear your own voice anymore, nor be sure that the hand stroking up and down your spine is real.

The thing inside you is tearing itself from your body in violent, bloody ways -- and you are undone. The frayed fabric that makes up the pure canvas of the universe is falling apart with the being inside you entering existence. You feel sorry for the world you couldn’t save. 

Sam notices as that metallic liquid – that your brother says is blood, though you don’t seem to realise – is dribbling down your lips and chin, onto his lap.

Sam’s body goes rigid as he holds you, who dropped your head low and Sam wonders if you can even hold it up on your own anymore. Somehow Sam can’t touch your face, he can’t force his own mouth to make sounds in that moment where everything feels like gravity was pulling you both down too harshly. 

"Help me," you mumble, yet muffled by Sam's chest, each vibration and soft sound from your voice reminding your brother that he can’t lose himself in his own fear – not right now. 

Because this will hurt. This is the end. 

But until then, Sam needed to hold his brother, pray as if he believed God cared -- as if he forgave, and hope heaven and hell could be tamed in the process. 

* * *

_IX. Hello_

Blood and moonlight and mould, the tiles of the bathroom. -- everything is tainted. Your hair is matted mess, slick with sweat and spread around your head like a distored halo. Sam brushes his fingers through it, and the universe slips though along with it. Neither of you could save it, and he's not sorry. 

A wail peices the hot, smothering air like a blade. You close your eyes. 

Everyone else will be.


End file.
